


Threnody

by gin_and_ashes



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Injury, Minor Character Death, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-08
Updated: 2010-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:45:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gin_and_ashes/pseuds/gin_and_ashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trip to turn of the century New York takes a traumatic turn for the Doctor and Rose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threnody

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Doctor/Rose Fix's [End of Summer Fixathon](http://community.livejournal.com/doctor_rose_fix/133539.html) at Livejournal. The prompt, by debs7, was "Nine/Rose, blindsided."
> 
> Thanks as always to jlrpuck for her wonderful work as beta.

It happens in a second. A fraction of one. They're in New York; it's November, 1903, the evening of Caruso's debut in _Rigoletto_ at the Metropolitan Opera. Rose had asked for "something swanky," and for once he'd got the timing just right, sweeping them into a box with an imperious smile and the help of the psychic paper. The evening has gone off without a hitch so far. Rose even enjoyed the opera--and not just the bits she recognised from that awful video game her idiot boyfriend is so fond of. She was so enthralled, she didn't even notice him staring at her the entire time. It's a good thing he's seen it so many times before (A fondness for Verdi, like the urge to tinker with machinery, seems to have come back to him in this regeneration--though not, fortunately, a penchant for capes).

Rose is gorgeous--exquisite, even--in her gown and gloves, though she's complaining about the corset (not that he can blame her). Her hair is up in a more than passable attempt at a Gibson Girl, and between her radiant smile, her gloved arm looped through his, and the pale, inviting curve of her neck in the lamplight, he's not sure where to look without giving himself away. He's so buoyant on his own success that he's about to throw caution to the wind and pay her an unqualified compliment when from behind there's a shout, a horrified whinny, and a crash. They both stop short and spin round, ready to spring into action.

The street is littered with broken glass and splintered wood; a woman screams and faints, and the Doctor can smell the coppery tang of blood in the air. He turns to Rose, his expression stony, a warning in his eyes. There's understanding in her gaze, but rather than step back, she lets go of his arm and jumps into the fray, her fan swinging from her wrist as she runs. She trips over her long skirts once, twice, before bending over with a curse and hiking them up well past her ankles. Somehow the crowd finds this more horrific than the scene they've gathered to gawk at, and the Doctor spares a quick thought for the hypocrisy of mannered society before racing to catch up with his companion. They have to push past pedestrians, teamsters, and liverymen to reach the scene, and Rose is possibly more forceful about it than him; but when they arrive, he wishes she'd stayed behind.

There's a young man lying on the pavement, little more than a boy, really, screaming with pain, his leg more crushed than broken. If the Doctor had to guess, he'd say the boy tired of waiting for traffic to clear (it won't, not for hours, and there will be scathing articles in the papers come morning about it), gambled by trying to dart between the cab and a carriage, and lost. It's hard to discern what's done the child more harm, the carriage wheels or the horse, but the Doctor can tell just by looking that the leg is the least of this boy's woes.

Rose, in her usual fashion, has commanded control of the scene, pushing the crowd back as far as she's able and kneeling beside the boy. She's tearing at her skirts, trying to fashion bandages out of the Brussels lace, but it's a nearly fruitless effort. Even without his knowledge of the human body, she's travelled with him long enough to know a fatal injury when she sees it. Or she would, if she'd ever accept that anyone is ever past saving.

Her efforts at ripping the gown are fruitless, and she begins to huff in frustration--it's a well-made garment, that dress, and won't come apart easily. She snatches a shard of glass from the pavement and slices through the lower part of her skirt until she can get a good grip and pull. The glass cuts through her glove, as well, and into her palm. A crimson stain begins to spread outwards from the centre like some elegant stigmata, but in her frenzied efforts to stop the boy's bleeding, Rose doesn't even acknowledge her own.

The Doctor, meanwhile, stands a few steps back. There's nothing he can do for this child, and he knows it. He could stop the bleeding in the leg easily enough, but it's more splinters than bone now. There's a tiny trickle of blood from the boy's mouth, and it's not stopping; he's certainly been either run over or trampled. Injured leg or no, this boy doesn't have long to live. The Doctor can sense it in the boy's ragged breathing, the gurgling sounds that come from this throat, the way his jaw works with every breath.

Rose looks up at him, pleading silently with her eyes for him to do something, anything, to help the boy. Her skirts are stained with blood, both the boy's and her own. Her hair has tumbled down in places where pins have shaken loose; several strands stick to her neck, sweaty from her exertions. Her eye makeup is running, streaking down her face with every tear that escapes. She knows. She has to know. But she refuses to see.

"Doctor," she begs, asking for so much with just one word.

He shakes his head, a tiny movement to express such finality. "There's nothing to be done, Rose."

She looks at him, stricken, for a moment more, as if she thinks he can change his mind, can reverse time and change this boy's fate, if she wills it hard enough. For a moment, he wishes it too.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

That shakes her; her eyes widen and she turns her attention back to the boy. His eyes are glazed and glassy, his breaths are coming shorter now, and the Doctor's not sure he's aware of his surroundings anymore. Rose starts fumbling with her skirts, searching for a clean patch, some small section of cloth not covered with blood, or dirt, or worse. Finding something acceptable, she tears at it with both hands, splitting her skirt and giving the onlookers a glimpse of stockinged thigh. A pair of young men, well heeled but no better than they ought to be, nudge each other and leer. The Doctor has to do no more than step forward; the flash of his eyes and the set of his jaw send them stepping hurriedly backwards, hands raised in apology or surrender. He kneels next to Rose, shielding what these people would consider her nakedness from view, then glares up at the men once more. They start, then, deciding they've seen enough for one night, turn and depart. Their places are quickly filled by others.

Rose is dabbing at the boy's brow with a scrap of satin, smiling encouragingly at him and speaking to him in soft, soothing tones. "It's all right," she says. "My name is Rose, and this is the Doctor." The boy's eyes widen a bit at that. He looks at them with something like hope and opens his mouth as if to speak; blood begins to pour out of both sides.

Rose shushes him, almost too vigorously. There's a slightly manic tone to her voice, despite her best efforts to remain calm. She's trying to be strong for this child, he knows, and she's done it before, in much more painful circumstances. This child dying before her may not be a relation, not this time, but Rose is only human. There's only so many deaths she can witness first hand before she breaks.

"Shh, don't say anything," Rose says. A tear falls from her eye and lands on the boy's cheek. It trails down his face, leaving a bright, clear streak in the dirt and grime that cake it otherwise. "You just rest. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere, you hear me? Not anywhere." Her free hand darts out across his body, capturing his small, dirty fingers in her own gloved ones.

Blood begins to pour out of the boy's mouth now; he's going to choke on it, if he doesn't die of his other injuries first. Rose looks frantically over to the Doctor for some sort of help, or guidance. "Please, Doctor," she begs. "Do something. Help him."

He can't save this boy. He can't. But he can at least make sure he doesn't drown in his own blood. Working quickly, the Doctor clears an airway, helping the last few breaths the boy takes be clear ones, at least. The boy gasps, his eyes locked on Rose's. He doesn't look at the Doctor, doesn't even know that he's there: Rose is his entire world. And that's something the Doctor can understand. If he had to spend his final moments staring into one face…but no, now most definitely is not the time to think like that. It's selfish and wrong.

The boy's breathing becomes even more shallow. The Doctor takes a pulse and finds it thready and weak. Only moments remain, and everyone knows it, most likely even the boy, but he's smiling. He's looking at Rose and he's smiling, just a little, and Rose is smiling back and trying so hard not to cry. The cloth drops from her hand; she extends her arm towards the Doctor. He knows exactly what she's asking for, what this boy needs right now, and that she can't do it on her own because she can't--she won't--take her other hand away from his. Without a word he peels her glove down, past her elbow, over her fingers, and off, casting it aside.

Instantly, Rose's bare fingers are in the boy's hair, brushing it back from his forehead as she makes calming, wordless noises, like she's trying to lull him to sleep instead of...instead of what she's doing. He's dying, this child, in front of them, but he will not die unloved. Rose will see to that.

The crowd remains, though it's thinned a little, most of the opera-goers having fled. They have, after all, just seen a romanticised, theatrical death, all beauty and haunting refrain. The ugly, dirty reality simply can't compare. As for the ones that linger, well, they're coarse enough that even the Doctor's most menacing glare can't shame them into giving this boy a bit of privacy in his last moments. This, to them, is better than the opera--and it's free.

By the time the Doctor looks back down, it's over. The light has gone out of the boy's eyes and he stares lifelessly ahead. There's no breath, no movement, only the sound of Rose's soft sniffles as she continues to stroke the boy's brow. They should leave, he knows it; the police will be there eventually, and they'll have questions. But Rose gives no indication she's ready to move, and he's not quite prepared to ask. Instead he remains kneeling silently beside her. It probably appears to the onlookers as though he's praying; but he has no prayers to offer for this child, or for Rose, and certainly not for himself. What he does have is a memory, one more death to add to the countless he's seen, the ones he's failed, the multitudes he was unable to save.

And he has Rose, who saw a child dying and tried to help. The boy is no less dead for her efforts; but at least he wasn't alone. And maybe--just maybe--he was a little less afraid because a beautiful lady stopped, and held his hand, and told him it would be okay.

He hears the whistles of the police officers, feels the crowd begin to dissolve, onlookers peeling away from the outside in like layers of an onion. Gently, he reaches over and disentangles Rose's fingers from the dead boy's. She doesn't want to let go, not at first, won't even look away from the child's unseeing eyes.

"Rose," he whispers, then says her name more clearly, more forcefully, trying to bring her back to the present. "Rose."

Her eyes regain their focus and she glances up, almost surprised to see the Doctor there. Confused, she looks back down at the boy, then back up to meet the Doctor's eyes again. His hand enfolds hers, still clutching the boy's. He eases his long fingers down and along her small ones, replacing the dead child's hand with his own. Though he knows he needs to do this, it feels wrong somehow.

The constables are there at last, and with them an ambulance, a sombre horse-drawn affair. The Doctor helps Rose to her feet, guiding her back and away to let the ambulance-driver do his work. He and one of the policemen gather up the boy and load him into the back. They're about to raise the tailgate when Rose speaks.

"Where's his hat?" she asks. "He had a hat."

The police officer frowns at her. "A what?"

"A hat," she says again. "It was right beside him, I saw it." She yanks her hand out from the Doctor's grip and begins walking around the site of the accident in tight circles, searching the pavement. "It was soft, and black, I think, or maybe just dirty, and it had a short brim and a button on the bell. It was there," she says, pointing to the ground. "It was right there and now it's not."

The driver looks at the broken little body lying in the back of his ambulance. "Nothing here," he says, a bit warily. It's obvious he thinks Rose to be mad: Why would a lady like her care whether or not a dead street urchin has a hat?

"Who took it?" Rose turns on the few onlookers that remain. "Who took his hat? Which one of you stole a hat from a dying _child_?"

She's shouting now, tears beginning to spill down her face, and if he doesn't act soon, Rose will be the one in the ambulance--on her way to Bellevue. He takes her hand in his again, draping his other arm over her shoulder to guide her away from the scene, and makes some noises to the police constable about how she's had a shock and he needs to get her home. The policeman, obviously relieved at not having to subdue what he thinks is a madwoman, nods and uses his truncheon to hold the spectators back as they make their way from the scene.

The Doctor walks them back to the TARDIS as quickly as he dares. He can feel Rose flagging as the adrenaline leaves her system. Her steps are slower and less sure, and she begins to sag against him slightly. It's no surprise, and he thinks no less of her for it. Tonight she was strong enough for two people--maybe three. She leans heavily against the TARDIS as he opens the door and doesn't protest when he puts his arm around her again to guide her inside.

Her hand needs tending to, but she tells him she needs to get out of her corset and into a shower, and honestly he can't blame her. Her dress is in tatters; her stockings torn, bloodied, and dirty. The tangled mess of her hair clings to her face and neck. She starts to remove her one remaining dirt- and blood-stained glove, then notices where it is marked with the imprints of the dying boy's fingers. She flexes her fingers, staring at them for a few moments, then tears it off, throwing it violently as far from her as she can, and races out of the console room, leaving the Doctor alone.

He waits, worried and confused for several minutes, completely at a loss for what to do next. It's not even clear if Rose will come back. She might just stay in her room and go to bed. Which is her right, he knows that; she did the same thing after they'd gone back and seen her father, after...well. If she hadn't wanted to talk about it then, then perhaps she doesn't now, either. Only...no, if she'd wanted to talk about it, she would have, he tells himself. He couldn't have stopped her, not Rose.

Still. She's had a shock, and that is a nasty laceration on her palm. It needs proper medical attention. As a friend, and as a doctor, he would be doing her a disservice by not checking up on her. It isn't being intrusive if he's providing needed medical care. Nodding in agreement (with himself, as if there had been some risk of dissent there) he heads for the infirmary, grabs a handful of supplies, then walks the short distance to Rose's bedroom, only hesitating once he's reached her door. This--he's not good at this. Relying on another person, letting her rely on him--there's too great a chance for spectacular failure, and to do that to Rose, who forms attachments so quickly and feels so deeply, who needs so much--he's off balance here, not completely in control, and it makes him almost itch. Still, too much more of this and she might decide she's had enough, that she wants to go home. And he's not sure he can be alone again.

 _What a selfish bastard you are_ , he chastises himself as he knocks, schooling his features into a mask of detached concern. He's lying to himself, he knows that much, but which lie is it? That he cares about her well-being, or that he doesn't? It's not a difficult question to answer, and that's why he refuses.

There's been no answer, so he knocks again. He hears something from within, and it sounds more like "Come in" than "Go away," so he takes that as an invitation and opens the door. Rose is sitting on her bed in her pyjamas, back against the headboard, her cheek resting on her bent knees, her hands hugging her legs close. Her hair is wet and mussed; a damp towel lies next to her on the bed, where she must have dropped it after towel-drying her hair. A comb lies, forgotten, on her nightstand. Her eyes open briefly when he approaches the bed, then slide closed again. That's all the acknowledgement he receives.

The awkward silence stretches on for a while. The Doctor's not sure what to do, what to say. Rose has a look of defeat about her, something he never imagined he'd see, not in her. This is the girl who was ready to fight to the death against the Gelth, who refused to accept fate when a warhead was aimed directly at them, who watched her planet burn and then offered _him_ comfort. Now, she just looks overwhelmed. It's a look he knows well. Always was good at reading people, him, and Rose is an open book in any case. She's trying to figure out how much more of this she can stand, or if it's gone past that point already.

"I, er,..I came to see about your hand," he says, tamping down the fear.

"It's fine." She wants to be left alone, wants him to go. But he can't leave. If he leaves, she'll leave. He knows it.

"You a doctor, then?" Her eyes open; she raises her head enough to rest her chin on her knees. It's an opening, and he'll take it. "Know all about things like staph infections and tendon damage, do you?"

"I didn't---it's a tiny cut." She flexes her injured hand, a bit uncertainly.

"I'll be the judge of that, thanks."

She sighs, but straightens a bit and holds out her hand, palm up for inspection. He sits on the bed and tugs her hand toward him, trying to look more annoyed than relieved. It's not a complete facade, since he feels both in equal measure. Still, he makes a bit of a show of scrutinising what turns out to be a relatively superficial cut on her palm. It gives him an excuse to hold her hand a little bit longer. Not that he needs to, of course. It's strictly for her benefit.

"You stitching me up or reading my palm?" she asks, after a moment. He's caught out and he knows it, but the wry amusement in her tone makes it worth any embarrassment.

"Bit of both, I reckon," he replies, as he pulls a bottle of antiseptic out of his pocket. When he squeezes it onto the wound she hisses and flinches, but he holds her hand fast, refusing to let her pull away. He finally drops her palm in order to open a packet of sterile gauze; she waves her hand around and makes to blow on it, but stops at his stern look. "Don't go reinfecting it, or I'll just have to start over."

Her eyes narrow, but she thrusts her hand towards him again. He dabs at the edges of the wound with the gauze, checking for any remaining debris or slivers of glass. It appears clean, at least to his eyes; the worst was probably washed away by the shower. Satisfied that there's no danger of infection or permanent damage, he pulls what looks like a tiny tube of toothpaste from his jacket pocket, flips the cap open one-handed, and squeezes a thin line of purplish gel along the length of the cut.

"What is that?" she asks. He risks a glance in her direction, sees her peering at his handiwork, her nose wrinkled. "Smells like turpentine."

"It's a cyanoacrylate adhesive." He holds the edges of the cut together for a few seconds, then pulls out the sonic screwdriver and waves it over his handiwork.

"A what?"

"Medical super glue. It's not uncommon on Earth, though this--" he waves the tube at her before pocketing it again. "--is much better. You'll be healed up in a day, not a week or more. Bit of a scar, probably, but nothing too bad." He starts gathering up the debris, pocketing this and that and chucking the gauze in the bin next to her bed. There's really no reason for him to stay any longer, and she looks exhausted. It's just that he's afraid of what will happen if he goes.

"So, you gonna tell me my fortune?" Rose's chin is resting on her knees again, but her expression is more open, more engaged. She doesn't want him to leave, either, so he grabs that and runs with it.

"What?"

"Before you got goo all over it, you said you were reading my palm." She wiggles her fingers at him. "What'd you see?"

He grabs her hand, points to where soon she'll have a pale white scar. "I saw you made a slice right through your fate line, that's what I saw."

"And that means...what?"

"It means you need to be more careful with sharp objects," he says, matter-of-factly.

Her face falls, and his shoulders slump. Could he bungle this any worse? Maybe he should leave before he says something that will send her back to Mum and Mickey. They sit in silence for several moments; she's not talking and he's not moving, and together they make one miserable, frightened pair. Finally, she shifts on the bed, moves infinitesimally closer to him.

"They didn't care," Rose says, her voice barely above a whisper. "That boy was lying in the gutter, dying, and no one cared."

"Not no one," he replies, softly (if ungrammatically), realising as he speaks that he's still holding her injured hand in his. Linking their fingers together will risk reopening her wound, so instead he traces around the centre of her palm with his index finger. "You cared."

"I never even asked him his name."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters," she shoots back, affronted. She's misunderstood, thinks he's being callous. "He _died_. He was just a little boy and now he's dead. He died frightened and alone and far too young and no one will ever know his name."

"Rose." He looks up from her palm, sees the tears gathering in her eyes. "Where we were tonight--in that time, in that place--a boy like him...his life was always going to be brutish and short, and nothing we could have done would have changed that. But he wasn't alone at the end. Rose Tyler, that boy--whatever his name was--that boy was more loved in his last few moments than he probably had been in his entire life. And you did that."

"But he still died, Doctor."

The Doctor nods. "Yes. He did. We can't save everyone, Rose. We can't even save most of the people, no matter how much we might want to. Sometimes the best we can do is hold their hand and let them know they won't be forgotten."

"It's not fair."

"No. It's not. But it has to be enough."

"How do you do it?" she asks, and he knows it's not a rhetorical question.

 _I don't_ , he wants to say. _I blame myself for every last one of them_. But this isn't about him or his guilt. "I've had nine hundred years to come to terms with it," he replies instead.

She frowns. "I don't have that long." As if he needed reminding.

"So don't."

"What d'you mean?"

He's not sure, really; he surprised even himself with that last bit. But his mouth goes on without waiting for his brain, as it's sometimes wont to do. "I have to, Rose. I have to live on and on and see everyone die. Sometimes they go violently, sometimes they waste away, sometimes I leave and when I come back they're gone. I have to accept it. That doesn't mean you do."

"But you just said--"

"There's a difference between accepting the inevitability of death and being complacent about it. What you did tonight wasn't complacency. Could you save that boy? No you couldn't, and there's no shame in that. But you couldn't just walk by and let him lie there bleeding, either. You jumped in and fought for him. You cared. Because you're Rose Tyler and that's what you do, and believe me when I say the universe is a better place for it."

Her laugh is dismissive.

"It is," he protests. "What if just one of those people tonight, the next time they see a child like that--and early twentieth century New York has plenty of them, just ask Jacob Riis--what if just one of them actually looks, and remembers tonight, and decides to do something to help?"

"You think that can happen?"

"I know it can."

For the first time in what seems like hours, Rose's mouth curves upwards. "Careful, Doctor. Anyone might think you were an optimist."

"Always am, when it comes to humans," he replies.

"You really like us, don't you?"

She's more than smiling--she's beaming, the full force of her thousand-watt grin aimed directly at him. She's staying, at least for now, and that's all he dares ask for. It's time to leave before he gets himself into trouble. He lets go her hand, rises, and walks to the still-open door. Just as he crosses the threshold he turns, resting a hand on the doorjamb, and flashes her his most enigmatic smile.

"You're my favourite."

Then, Cheshire Cat-like, he disappears.


End file.
